Heist
by Lyrical Ballads
Summary: Seven criminals. Fifteen thousand dollars. One traitor. When a museum robbery goes wrong, it's up to Rick, Izzy, and Beni to find out who betrayed them. But first they have to survive. (Rated for language.)
1. September 1: A Slight Mishap

**Disclaimer:** I do not own _The Mummy _or any parts of the plot that were inspired by the 1992 film _Reservoir Dogs_.

**Author's Note:** I am so excited that I'm finally posting this story. _So _excited. I've been longing to write a gritty crime drama for the longest time, but I couldn't think of a plot, and then one day I was sitting around watching _Reservoir Dogs_, one of my favorite movies, and inspiration hit me. I wouldn't call this an adaptation, since I'm putting a number of twists on the failed-heist-due-to-an-inside-betrayal plot, but this story was definitely influenced by _Reservoir Dogs_, with a dash of _Kill Bill_ and _Pulp Fiction_. (Have I mentioned how much I love Quentin Tarantino's films? I am _crazy_ about Quentin Tarantino's films. Seriously, the man is my hero.) Anyway, this is going to be a rather experimental piece for me, since I'm attempting a few things I've never done before, including a non-linear storyline (oh look, more inspiration from Tarantino!), so I really don't know if I'll be able to pull this off, but I'm willing to try. And now enough of my rambling. On with the story!

* * *

**Heist**

* * *

PART ONE  
"A Slight Mishap"

_Burns' apartment  
**September 1, 1926**_

Mr. Burns paced the floor of his apartment. Back and forth, back and forth, back and forth he walked, only pausing to take the occasional peep out the window or glance at the old-fashioned pocket watch he kept in his waistcoat. He knew he should have turned down this job. Knew he should have listened to common sense when he let Daniels and Henderson rope him into another scheme. _No more jobs._ That was what Burns told them a couple of weeks ago, on a sweltering summer day when the whiskey flowed freely and desperation took hold of them all. No more jobs, not now and not ever. He was going to return to the States, go to law school like he'd always wanted and make his miserable bastard of an old man proud.

_You'd hafta be fuckin' nuts to turn this down_, Daniels told him. _Ten thousand cash bucks. That's more'n fourteen hundred for each of us._

Ten thousand dollars. No, _fifteen_ thousand dollars, thanks to the extra payoff that was coming, which meant Burns would get twenty-one hundred for himself. Burns was cooped up in his stuffy little apartment, pacing around like a caged animal for a couple thousand bucks, and he took another glance at his battered old pocket watch. Rick and Izzy were late. Rick and Izzy were _very_ late, unless Burns' watch was twenty minutes fast, and he could see all that beautiful money slipping right through his fingers, vanishing into some deep dark chasm where it could never return.

He was starting to sweat and loosened his tie, longing for the cool breezes and shady trees of his Midwestern hometown. Back in the States, fall would soon make its arrival, bringing long-awaited relief from the summer heat, but in Egypt it was all the same. In Egypt you sweated whether it was spring or summer, fall or winter, and Burns was sick and tired of sweating. He was sick and tired of waiting, waiting, _waiting_ for something to happen while the minutes ticked by, each one disappearing faster than the last.

He was stuck waiting, while all the other fellows got to actually do something, just because he was the most respectable of the bunch. The one whose apartment was least likely to be searched by the cops, the one who wouldn't attract any suspicion if a couple of visitors showed up with a package. The one who was too quiet and boring to do anything important.

_A goddamn saint is what he is_, Henderson had drawled a few days before. _Shoulda been a fucking monk, that's what I always say. I bet you're still a virgin, ain'tcha, Burnsy? _

He hated being called Burnsy.

_You're a virgin, ain'tcha? Guess chastity's all the rage 'mong you bookish types. You'n Jonny's sister would make quite the pair. _

Burns wiped his shirt sleeve across his forehead, mopping up the sweat that stood out on his skin. They could all go to hell, Henderson and the others, as soon as this was through. Burns didn't need them and their constant jibes, not when two thousand bucks were about to fall into his lap. And surely they _would_ fall into his lap, for Rick and Izzy were bound to arrive any minute now. He would buy himself a boat ticket to the States that very day, after he bought himself a nice new suit and a fancy drink, and maybe one of those expensive hookers that lounged around on couches all day wearing jewels and taking dope to pass the time, just to prove to Henderson that he wasn't some coddled sissy-boy who'd never been up a woman's skirts before.

A long-awaited tap came at the door, answering all of his prayers, and Burns found himself grinning like a fool as he went to yank the door open. "It's about time—" he started to say, but the rest of his sentence got caught in his throat when he realized who his visitor was.

"Hello, Mr. Burns," said Meela, her dark eyes cool and polite as she watched him fumble for something coherent to say. "Expecting someone else? I was expecting _you_ twenty minutes ago."

"Rick and Izzy are late," he said, tugging nervously at his shirt collar.

"Rick and Izzy aren't coming. There's been a slight... _mishap_."

"A mishap," Burns echoed numbly.

"That's right. Would you mind letting me in?"

Burns _did_ mind letting her in, though he would never say it to her face. Meela was only a woman, perfect and lovely in a dress that reached her ankles, but she didn't have the mind of a woman. She thought like a man. Did business like a man. Inspired fear like a man. Just the sight of her had Burns shaking in his boots, but he moved aside and let her sweep into his stuffy apartment, her heeled shoes tapping on the wooden floor.

"Do I frighten you, Mr. Burns?" she asked, regarding him with dark, amused eyes as he hastily shut the door.

"No," said Burns, meeting her gaze. "Of course not."

"I frighten you, don't I? You're looking at me like a mouse that's just spotted the cat." Meela smiled. "There's no need to be frightened of me. I'm not angry."

God, he wished he could stop sweating. He wished Egypt wasn't so hot. He wished Meela would stop beating around the bush, march back to her fancy home, and leave him in peace. Burns tugged at his collar again, desperate for some air, and forced himself to stand up straighter. "I would greatly appreciate it—"

"Always the polite one, aren't you?" said Meela.

Burns glared at her. "If you'd let me finish, I would greatly appreciate it if you told me what's happening out there."

"Pandemonium," Meela said calmly. "That's what's happening. It's all gone wrong, I'm afraid, but I'm sure it was an accident. You boys wouldn't botch up such an important mission on purpose, now would you?"

Burns wasn't the mouse who had just spotted the cat. He was the mouse who had been cornered by the cat, heart thumping in fear as he realized that he was doomed. She couldn't _possibly _know about the other plan, the one that they all swore they would never tell her. She couldn't possibly know, and yet she must have found out.

"_Would_ you?" Meela repeated, watching him closely with that calm, terrifying smile on her lips.

"What do you mean, it's all gone wrong?" Burns choked out. "What the hell happened?"

"Police. They showed up at the museum immediately."

"That's impossible."

"If it's so impossible, then why did it happen?"

"I don't know," said Burns, hating the way his voice sounded so weak. "But we had a key. Jonathan had a key to the museum, he—he swiped it from his sister. Nobody had to break in."

"I'm aware of that," she said. "I _did_ approve the final plan, after all. Unless there's something you'd like to tell me?"

She _did_ know. Somebody must have talked. Burns would bet all the cash in his pockets that it was Beni, the lousy, sneaking little weasel of a—

"It's such a pity," said Meela. She moved closer to him, the long fabric of her dress whispering around her ankles. "All that money that could have been yours. I'm a very wealthy woman, Mr. Burns."

He didn't realize she had a leather sheath strapped to her hip until she pulled out a dagger, its jewel-encrusted hilt glittering in the sunny room. She held the dagger in her hand, keeping the point away from Burns, though he couldn't keep his eyes off the wickedly sharp blade. Any words he might have spoken were immediately stuck in his throat.

"Beautiful, isn't it?" she murmured. "It's over three thousand years old. Extremely valuable."

"Looks good for its age," said Burns.

"Have you ever heard of Anck-Su-Namun?"

"Anck-who?"

"Anck-Su-Namun," Meela repeated. "She was the mistress of Pharaoh Seti I. This dagger was a gift from her lover, a priest named Imhotep." She gently ran a finger along the flat end of the blade, keeping her eyes fixed on Burns. "The blade is still incredibly sharp, after all these years. The scholar who sold it to me said it's just as deadly as the day it was first crafted. And would you look at these emeralds?" She touched the hilt, stroking each beautiful green jewel. "Imhotep must have loved Anck-Su-Namun very much if he was willing to give all he had for a gift like this."

Burns nodded dumbly. "That's very... very fascinating."

"Do you believe in love, Mr. Burns?"

"I don't know what that has to do with—"

"It's a very simple question. Do you believe in love?"

"Sure. Sure I believe in it."

Meela lowered her dagger so that it rested at her side, though she never loosened her tight grip on the jewel-encrusted hilt. "I myself am a great believer in love. Anck-Su-Namun and Imhotep both died for their love, you know. Don't you find that terribly romantic?"

He didn't know what to think anymore. She was a sorceress, keeping him spellbound against his will with a maze of words that twisted and turned with no end in sight.

"I'm a great believer in loyalty, too," Meela continued. "And it wounds me to imagine that a fine, upstanding man like you would ever betray me." She drew even closer to Burns, her dark eyes locked on his. "I'd like to tell you a secret. I've always been very attracted to men who wear glasses."

He stared at her in shock. "You have?"

"There's something about a nice pair of spectacles that makes a man look _so_ intelligent. And you seem like an intelligent man to me."

She was so close now. He breathed in her scent, feeling intoxicated as she caressed the side of his face with her free hand, and the woman may have terrified him but he wanted her. Oh God, how he wanted her in that moment. He remembered being an awkward schoolboy, getting tittered at by little girls with braided pigtails who called him names, and getting his glasses knocked to the floor when his old man was in a temper. _Four-eyes_, the girls said to his face. _No-good fool of a boy with rocks in his head_, the old man called him. _Can't believe his whore ma swears he's mine._

And yet this woman was so close to him, breathing such sweet words in his ear, and he would take her if she offered herself to him. He would take her if it meant she would forgive him for whatever had gone wrong during the robbery.

"Well," he told Meela, feeling bolder, "I suppose you're right. I wanted to go to law school, you know."

"How fascinating," she murmured. "You'd make a brilliant lawyer."

"You really think so?"

"I _know_ you would."

Burns suddenly felt the hard, cold force of a blade pressed to his neck, and he gasped as Meela held the dagger against his skin. "What are you—"

"Here are your choices," Meela said, all warmth gone from her voice. "You either allow me to cut your throat, or you tell me _everything_. I'm sure an intelligent man like you will choose wisely."

"Th-there's nothing to tell. I don't even know what's happening out there!"

Meela gently nicked his throat with the dagger, making him gasp again. "Don't lie to me. I know there's something funny going on."

"We never meant to give you the loot," Burns said quickly.

"Keep talking."

"Henderson made a deal behind your back. He—he found somebody who was willing to give us fifteen grand."

He spilled the whole story, sparing no details when that wickedly cold blade threatened to bleed him dry. He had tried telling Henderson that the plan was a bad idea, that they were better off taking Meela's ten grand in exchange for the loot, but Henderson wouldn't listen. Said he didn't like doing business with a woman anyway, and that he was planning to skip town and leave the country regardless of what happened. Might as well go back to the States with more cash in his pockets.

"I'm sorry," Burns said, breaking down under Meela's icy gaze. "If there's any way I can—can compensate you, or... or..."

"That won't be necessary," said Meela. "I have no further use for you." She removed the blade from Burns' throat, much to his relief, and used a handerchief to wipe up the tiny trickle of blood that ran down his throat. "Now where can I find the others?"

"Try Willie's liquor store," said Burns. It occurred to him that he was no longer hot and sweating in his stuffy apartment. Instead he felt cold all over, knowing how close he could have come to serious harm. "It's where the fellas agreed to meet if... if anything went wrong. There's a basement under there."

"Thank you," said Meela, a smirk on her lips.

"I can take you there if you want—"

"No, don't trouble yourself, Mr. Burns," she said, silencing him. "I'm perfectly capable of finding it on my own."

"Well, if you insist."

"Oh, yes. I _do_ insist. You just stay right here and keep out of the way." She plunged the dagger into Burns' chest, straight through his heart, and his last breath was torn from his body before he hit the ground.


	2. September 1: Something Ain't Right

PART TWO  
"Something Ain't Right"

_Willie's Liquor and Dry Goods  
**September 1, 1926**_

The basement of Willie's liquor store felt like an oven, all dark and hot with no windows and a single electric light that threatened to flicker out any second. According to Henderson, who knew Willie personally, it was a great place for high stakes poker games on late nights, but as Rick walked down the stairs and into the dim, stuffy room, he wondered how anyone could possibly breathe long enough to finish a game of poker. He held his gun at the ready, more out of habit than necessity, and listened to Izzy's nervous footsteps shuffling in behind him. The registration plate from Rick's car was clutched in his hands.

"What are you doing with that?" asked Rick, gesturing towards the plate with his gun.

"What do you _think_ I'm doing?" said Izzy, staring back at him with wild eyes. "I'm gonna bury it someplace!"

"Bury it where? We're indoors."

"That's what floorboards are for, O'Connell," Izzy said impatiently. "I'm gonna bury your plate under a floorboard so the cops will never find it."

The mention of cops reminded Rick of why they were in that basement in the first place. They were supposed to be driving to Burns' apartment, where they would drop off the loot they were supposed to have stolen, but they didn't have the loot. Rick didn't even know where the rest of their crew was.

"You think the cops got a good look at the plate?" he asked.

"Cops are sneaky bastards," said Izzy, clutching the dusty registration plate to his chest. "They see everything. If I don't bury this thing, the two of us are gonna get hanged for sure!"

"We're not gonna get hanged," said Rick.

"God, I can feel that noose already, closing in around my neck," said Izzy, ignoring Rick as he rubbed at his throat with one hand. "Cutting off all the air 'til everything turns black. I never did like ropes."

"We're not getting hanged."

"I'd much rather be guillotined, like they used to do in France. They say it doesn't hurt as much with a guillotine. One quick chop and it's all over."

Rick yanked the plate out of Izzy's hands and tossed it across the room, where it collided with the rough wooden leg of a poker table. "Forget the plate," he said. "We've got bigger things to worry about."

Everything happened so fast, he could barely make sense out of the scene they left behind. One moment he and Izzy were parked behind the museum, waiting for Beni and Jonathan to come out with the loot, and the next moment the cops were there, as if they had been waiting all along for somebody to rob the place. Izzy drove off in a panic and headed straight for the liquor store, the meeting place they all agreed on, and now here they were in a warm, stuffy basement with a million questions and no answers.

Izzy gaped at Rick, then stared open-mouthed at the registration plate lying on the floor, and finally threw up his hands in defeat. "There's no reasoning with you, is there? There's just no bloody reasoning with you! You've got a fucking rock for a skull."

"Why don't we quit arguing and figure out what to do?" said Rick. He was starting to wonder if anyone else was going to show up. They could have been captured by the cops. They could be dead. "We need a plan."

"A plan? You wanna know what I think about plans?" said Izzy. "I'm sick and tired of plans! We spend a whole week planning, planning, planning, and look where it's got us. No loot, no idea where the other fellows are, and no alibi that'll rescue our sorry asses when the cops haul us off to prison!"

Rick sighed and stuck his gun in his holster, or else he might be tempted to give Izzy a bullet or two in the kneecap. "I told you, we're not going to prison."

"Oh, and you think our good friend Beni won't squeal for all he's worth? Soon as the cops get hold of him, the lousy bugger'll tell 'em everything. If he hasn't already."

"What are you saying?"

"I'm saying that something ain't right, O'Connell. Somebody ratted us out."

"You don't know for sure."

"But I can make a pretty damn good guess. Cops don't show up that fast unless somebody tipped 'em off."

Rick knew Izzy was right. He knew he had taken a big risk, agreeing to work with six other guys, but he thought the money would be worth it. He thought the money would be worth it to all of them, and that nobody in their right mind would ruin their chances at such a big score.

"It's karma, you know," Izzy continued. "Karma always comes back to bite you in the end. We all betrayed Meela, and now somebody's gone and betrayed _us_. If I ever get my hands on Beni, I'll wring his weaselly little—"

"What makes you so sure it was Beni?" Rick cut in.

"Come on, O'Connell. It was obviously Beni!" said Izzy. "I know you think he's your buddy and all, but the man would sell his own mother for a handful of pennies. I'll bet he's been planning this all along, the cowardly little sneak."

Rick shook his head. "Beni's done plenty of jobs with us before."

"Well then who do _you _think the rat is?"

Rick didn't know, but he had a slight suspicion—one that grew stronger every moment—that Meela had something to do with the disaster at the museum. They thought they were so clever, planning to screw Meela out of her own deal so they could collect a bigger payoff, but maybe there was something in that karma bullshit Izzy was always talking about. Maybe they weren't as clever as they thought they were.

The basement door creaked open and a scrawny figure scurried down the stairs. Rick whipped his gun out of his holster, but kept his finger off the trigger when he recognized the red fez that approached him.

"Oh, thank God you are both alive!" said Beni, standing before them with one hand held to his heart. "I was so worried!"

"Where the hell have _you_ been?" Rick demanded.

"You drove away," Beni pointed out, looking at him with big, pathetic eyes. "I had to walk."

Izzy eyed him suspiciously, arms crossed in front of his chest as he looked Beni over. "Awfully funny, those cops showing up when they did," he said. "You wouldn't happen to know anything about that, now would you, Beni?"

"Why the hell would I know something about that? I hate cops."

"Izzy thinks we've got ourselves a rat," said Rick.

"Well don't go and _tell_ him!" Izzy hissed. "Now the cat's out of the bag!"

Beni looked around the basement warily, checking every shadowy corner. "What cat?"

"It's an expression," said Izzy. "How the bloody hell do you not know that it's an expression? Of course there's no cat down here!"

"Well O'Connell mentioned something about a rat earlier. If there is a rat, then it makes sense for a cat to be around."

Rick silenced them both with a glare and decided to change the subject. He wanted to get out of that stuffy basement and into the sun. He wanted answers. "Where are the other guys?" he asked Beni. "They headed over here?"

Beni took a step backwards and nervously licked his lips. "No."

"Where are they?"

"Henderson was grabbed by the cops," said Beni, his eyes darting from side to side as if he expected somebody to kick the door down any minute. "I don't know where the hell Daniels is. Jonathan was shot."

"By who?"

"I don't know. Henderson and the cops were all shooting at each other. One of the bullets caught Jonathan in the chest."

"Great," Rick muttered. One wounded, one captured, and one missing in action. If there really _was_ a rat—if all of Izzy's paranoia was more than just harmless paranoia—they were going to have one hell of a time finding out who it was. He didn't even know if Burns was still waiting in his apartment. "Is he dead?"

"How am I supposed to know that?" Beni whined. "There were cops everywhere! I didn't stay long enough to check."

Somebody would have to tell Jonathan's sister. Somebody would have to tell her the truth, that her grinning, carefree brother was a criminal who planned to rob the very museum she worked in, and Rick supposed that job would fall to him. He knew Evelyn better than the others did, for one thing. The two of them had gone out for coffee a couple of times—coffee for Rick, that is, and a cup of strong English tea for Evelyn, who refused to drink anything else—and he got the feeling that something deeper was hiding beneath her shy, bookish exterior, just waiting to get out. It was still morning; the museum wouldn't open for another half hour and Evelyn was safely tucked away in her home, ignorant of all the dark things that lurked in the world, and now he had to tell her that her brother had been shot. That he had stolen her trust and traded it away for a couple thousand bucks that he would never see. That none of them would ever see, if all was really, truly lost.

Izzy was correct about one thing: something didn't feel right. The plan was supposed to be simple. Rick and Izzy would wait outside the museum in Rick's car, Daniels and Henderson would stand guard and give the signal in case of trouble, while Jonathan and Beni—the ones with the quickest fingers and longest histories of taking what didn't belong to them—would enter the museum with Jonathan's key, grab the loot, and hand it over to Rick. Izzy would then drive to Burns, who would deliver the goods to their buyer in exchange for fifteen thousand dollars evenly split between the seven of them.

As for Meela... none of them had planned to stay in Cairo long enough for Meela to become a problem. Meela was supposed to be the least of their worries. Rick hoped she still _was_ the least of their worries.

"What happened to the loot?" Rick asked Beni, who was slowly edging closer to the rotting wooden stairs. "The cops get it?"

"Unfortunately, yes," Beni replied. "I never even got a chance to touch it."

"Well cry us a whole fucking river, why don't you?" said Izzy. "Do you know what I was gonna do as soon as I got my share of the money?"

"Shove it up your ass like the monkey you are," Beni said with a smirk.

"No," Izzy said with a glare. "I was gonna retire in Havana. Smoke the best cigars every day, do a little gambling here and there, find a nice flamenco dancer with long legs—"

"They dance the flamenco in Spain, not Cuba, you idiot," said Beni.

"How does that make me an idiot?"

"You don't even know the difference between Spain and Cuba."

"Well I'll bet you can't even _spell_ Spain and Cuba," said Izzy. "It doesn't matter anyway. I can't go to either one of those places now 'cause we don't have the loot, and it's all _your_ fault."

"We don't know if it was anyone's fault," said Rick, though he was starting to doubt those words more and more. The air in the basement was closing in around him, the single light bulb flickering away to an erratic, never-ending rhythm.

Beni gaped at Izzy in disbelief. "Why the hell is it my fault you can't move to Cuba? I have done nothing!"

"You're a rat, that's why. You went sneaking behind our backs and sang out the whole damn story to your nice little mates in uniform!"

"You _are_ an idiot," said Beni. "If I was talking to the cops, then they would be here by now. You would be in handcuffs and I would be on my way to your precious Havana with money in my pockets."

Rick had heard enough. Somewhere out there, Burns was wondering where the hell they were, Henderson was getting questioned by the cops, Daniels was doing God only knew what, and Jonathan... Jonathan was bleeding from the chest, probably more dead than alive. If he was even alive in the first place. He had to get out of that basement, tell Evelyn the news before it hit her right in the face, and then he would figure something out from there.

"Guys, we've gotta get out of here," said Rick. "Doesn't matter if there's a rat or not. If Henderson talks, it's all over."

Beni was already placing his foot on the bottom stair when the door creaked open again, letting a wide sliver of light into the dim, dusty basement. Daniels stood at the top of the steps, a bloody rag tied around one arm, and used his good arm to point a pistol at nobody in particular. He looked weary, as if he had been running for miles.

"All right, fellas," said Daniels, his voice sounding hard and dry as he steadied the aim on his pistol. "Which one of you bastards ratted us out?"


	3. August 25: Talking About Women

**Author's Note: **And this is where I start messing around with the timeline. This chapter, for example, takes place a week before the first two chapters. I'm going to move back and forth between September 1 (the day of the heist) and the days leading up to that event, so hopefully it won't get too confusing!

I'd also like to note that I changed the rating to M due to the language in this chapter. I used a lot more swearing than I normally do and the dialogue gets rather crass at times. I don't know if it was necessary to up the rating, since the rating guidelines are pretty vague and there are a lot of gray areas as far as content goes, but I decided to do it just to be on the safe side.

* * *

PART THREE  
"Talking About Women"

_A bar in Cairo  
**August 25, 1926**_

Daniels and Henderson were whiskey men through-and-through, Rick soon discovered. It was whiskey or nothing. They were both sick and tired of cocktails, had no desire to try vodka, and made it perfectly clear that wine was for faggots and Frenchmen ("Which are the same damn thing," Daniels had joked). The two of them ordered a round of bourbon for everyone—_real_ Kentucky bourbon, according to Henderson, who took his favorite liquor seriously—and opened up a tin of chewing tobacco, which Rick declined. He didn't like chewing on something without a purpose.

"So when's the big day?" Rick asked. The question had been on his mind all evening, ever since he arrived at the bar with Izzy and took his seat at a secluded back table, where only the most determined eavesdroppers could hear them.

"A week from now," said Burns. He hadn't offered his opinion on whether he thought bourbon was the greatest drink in the world. He didn't offer his opinion on much. "First day of September. We're doing it in the morning, before the place opens."

"Easiest fuckin' job there is," Henderson said around a mouthful of tobacco. "Good ol' Jonny's gonna get us a key and everything."

"Ten thousand bucks just to snatch a fuckin' book," Daniels said with a grin. "Only a broad would make a deal like that."

"I don't know, fellas," said Izzy, gazing thoughtfully into his glass. "Meela seems like a smart woman to me. There's something in her eyes, something that seems to stare _right_ through you if you know what I mean. Gives me the creeps."

Henderson snorted. "She's still a broad. Ain't nothin' on this good earth dumber than a broad."

Rick bristled at his words. They didn't know Evelyn, one of the most intelligent people he had ever met, the way Rick knew her. They hadn't heard her talk so passionately about ancient Egypt, which she knew like the back of her hand. They didn't have a single clue what they were talking about. "What's so dumb about 'em?" he asked.

"Beg your pardon?" said Henderson.

"Broads. Why do you think they're dumb?"

"Cause it's the gospel truth, O'Connell," said Henderson. "I know this fella named Willie, owns a liquor store just down the road. His brother Buddy—"

"That's his name?" Izzy interrupted. "Buddy?"

"Well it ain't his _real_ name. Everybody just calls him Buddy."

"What's his real name?"

"Leroy," Daniels answered with a chuckle. "Son of a bitch's name is Leroy. Fuckin' pansy name if I ever heard one."

"Hey, now! My second cousin's uncle's half-brother is named Leroy, for your information," said Izzy. "Fellow's taller than O'Connell here. But how the hell do you get Buddy out of Leroy?"

"It ain't important," said Henderson. "Buddy likes hangin' around hotels, 'specially the big fancy ones where you can get a real steak dinner and all the booze you could ask for. Now he's a real whiz when it comes to pickin' locks, Buddy is. He breaks into some rich broad's hotel room at eight in the fuckin' morning, while she's down in the lobby havin' herself an omelette or some shit, and ol' Buddy swipes this pearl necklace that's sittin' around in a trunk. The thing ain't even locked, so he just grabs it and gets the hell out, easy as pie."

"He ever get caught?" said Rick.

"Hell no," said Daniels, who seemed to know the story.

"The bitch gets back to her room and finds out the necklace is missing," said Henderson. "So she makes a big fuss, like broads do, and reports it missing. Meanwhile Buddy's got the rope of stones and waits a coupla days, just bidin' his time while the bitch tears her hair out wonderin' where the hell her necklace is. After a coupla days, Buddy waltzes up to the manager or somethin' and says he found the necklace lyin' on the hotel property outside. Figured he'd pick it up and see if it belonged to anyone. The rich broad is beside herself. Says she'll give Buddy a reward of five hundred bucks for findin' her necklace, so he takes the money and hands over the pearls, just like that."

Daniels couldn't contain himself anymore and burst into loud, barking laughter. "The bitch had no idea he stole her fuckin' necklace," he said, pounding his fist on the table as he laughed. Bourbon splashed out of his glass, but he didn't seem to notice. "He steals it right from under her nose, and she gives him five hundred bucks!"

"Only five hundred?" Burns said skeptically.

"It was a reward, Burnsy," said Henderson. "You don't do no hagglin' over a reward. Anyway, Buddy didn't care how much he got. Sneaky bastard just wanted to con somebody."

"How come this Buddy fellow ain't working with us?" asked Izzy.

"He's in the clink," said Daniels. He was scowling now, all traces of laughter wiped from his face. "Doin' time in the States for tax evasion."

Izzy, who was in the middle of taking a drink, nearly choked on his bourbon as he started to laugh. Rick reached over and thumped him on the back.

Daniels turned his scowl upon Izzy. "It ain't funny."

"Of course it's funny!" said Izzy. "That's the funniest fucking thing I've heard all month."

"It _ain't_ funny," Daniels said again. "How would you like it if somebody threw your coon ass in the clink for a thing like that?"

"What the hell were we talkin' about, anyway?" said Henderson.

"Women," said Burns, looking bored as he glanced at his pocket watch. "We were talking about women."

The conversation always turned to women when Rick was gathered with a group like this. He didn't know Daniels, Burns, and Henderson well, but he had been vaguely aware of them for months and heard their names mentioned in certain circles. Thieves always knew other thieves. Crooks knew other crooks in every big city and Cairo was no different, with its vast collection of criminals that came to the desert from every corner of the world. Rick, Izzy, and Beni knew Jonathan, who knew Daniels, Burns, and Henderson, who had connections to Meela, and next thing Rick knew he was caught up in a scheme for ten thousand bucks.

It really did sound as easy as Daniels and Henderson claimed. All they had to do was sneak into the museum, grab an ancient book (The Book of the Dead, Meela had called it, with a mysterious little smirk on her face) along with the key that opened it, and collect a payment much bigger than the peanuts Rick had earned during a long, grueling year of petty theft and minor schemes. He was willing to put up with the meetings in bars, willing to take in the bourbon and the jokes and the stories, if it meant he could collect a big payoff and disappear to some other big city, where the police had yet to learn his name.

His eyes drifted over to the bar counter, where Jonathan was busy getting drunk on scotch and attempting—rather unsuccessfully, from the look on her face—to go home with a buxom blonde woman who sat nearby. Beni was at the bar too, letting his wandering hands snatch any remotely valuable item that wasn't tied down, and took the occasional swig from a glass of clear liquor that had to be vodka. Beni would never be a bourbon man.

Daniels followed Rick's gaze to the bar, where Beni was cursing to himself as he burned his fingers trying to light a cigarette, and he smirked. "I know of a woman who's even dumber than the one who got her necklace swiped," Daniels remarked, grabbing a fresh wad of tobacco out of the tin that sat on the table. "Any woman who lets herself get poked by Beni Gabor is dumber than a fuckin' rock."

"Who's letting Beni poke her?" Izzy demanded, watching Daniels with wide eyes.

"That overdressed French bitch, the one with all the Egyptian touristy shit in her apartment. I always forget her name. It's Jeanette or Babette or somethin'."

"Claudette," Henderson spoke up.

"How do ya know that?" said Daniels. "You stickin' it in her too?"

"Nah, I don't do French broads. But everyone 'round here knows Claudette. I'd bet you fifty bucks she'd fuck a camel before lettin' Beni Gabor get his paws on her."

"Fifty bucks, huh?" said Rick. He never asked Beni about women, but he had seen him sneak off in the direction of the marketplace near Claudette's apartment. He had smelled the sickening French perfume that occasionally clung to his clothes. "That's a lot of money for a bet like that, pal."

"Cause I know I'd win it," said Henderson, leaning back casually in his seat. "No way in hell that little rat bastard is fucking Claudette, or any other broad in this city."

"He's fucking her," said Daniels. "I seen it with my own eyes."

Izzy knocked over his glass, spilling what little remained of his bourbon. "Wait a minute, wait a minute!" he said. "You actually _watched_ them?"

"No, you idiot," said Daniels. "I seen 'em together."

"Well that would imply that you saw them making the beast with two backs, mate! I won't deny that I've seen some crazy shit in this city, but that would give a fellow nightmares."

"That ain't what I mean, so you can shut your goddamn mouth and lemme finish the story. I was at Claudette's apartment the other day, on account of some shit she wanted me to sell for her. Coupla stolen vases or somethin'. I knock on the door and she comes out wearin' a pink silk bathrobe. And when I say pink silk, I mean this bathrobe is blinding as hell. I didn't even know the color pink could be that bright, but I felt my eyeballs burnin' away just looking at it. Anyway, she comes out dressed like that, and her hair's a mess. And not in a normal just-woke-up kinda way. It's three in the afternoon. This broad's hair is all mussed up in a just-got-fucked-into-the-middle-of-next-week kinda way."

A nervous grin tugged at the corners of Burns' mouth. "How do you know that Beni was with her?"

"Hold your horses, will ya?" said Daniels. "I talk to Claudette for a coupla minutes. That's all I can take before I gotta head outside and get some air. You ever been in that broad's apartment?"

"She likes perfume just a _little_ too much," said Izzy.

"She must not have no sense of smell, 'cause I was gaggin' when I was in there. Either that or she uses a ton of that shit when Beni comes over. Only way she can stand him, I guess. Anyway, I'm outside and I light up a cigarette to chase away that perfume smell. I'm standin' there by the apartment, puffin' away, and all of a sudden I see Beni sneakin' outta Claudette's door. First coupla buttons of his shirt are undone and he looks like more of a fuckin' weasel than ever, all shifty-eyed and sneaky-like."

Rick glanced at Henderson. "Still wanna make that bet?"

"I ain't buying it," said Henderson. "No woman would spread her legs for the likes of Beni. I mean, just look at the fella. His dick's probably the size of my pinky finger."

"Look, I don't know why the hell I saw what I saw, but I seen it all the same," said Daniels. "I ain't a liar."

"Nobody's calling you a liar, Daniels," said Burns. He pulled out his pocket watch again, brow furrowed in concentration as he flipped it open and looked at the time. "It's getting late."

It _was_ getting late. Rick looked around the bar, staring through the haze of cigarette smoke until he found Jonathan again, perched tipsily on his bar stool. Only a matter of time until he wobbled off the stool, landed in a heap on the hard wooden floor, and knocked himself unconscious. "My great-great-great-something-grandfather was a, was a _pharaoh_, you know!" Jonathan said loudly, addressing the blonde woman who sat nearby. "A real bloody pharaoh, with a crown and everything! I'm so bloody rich you wouldn't believe it if I told you. But I _did_ tell you, didn't I?"

Rick sighed and got up from his seat. "I've gotta head out."

"What the hell for?" said Izzy.

"I'll see you guys tomorrow."

He strode away from the table, ignoring the chorus of protests from Izzy and the others, and came up behind Beni so he could clap a hand on his shoulder. Beni nearly jumped off his bar stool and turned his head to look at Rick with startled eyes.

"O'Connell! You scared me."

"Help me get our friend here into my car," said Rick, jerking his thumb in Jonathan's direction.

"But I have not finished my vodka—"

Rick grabbed Beni by the arm and yanked him off his bar stool, promptly shutting him up, and dragged him over to Jonathan's end of the bar. The blonde woman finally walked away, disappearing into the smoky crowd, but Jonathan didn't seem to notice and continued talking to an empty bar stool. "Have I mentioned how fab... fab-u-lously you look, darling? I say, are those real diamonds in your ears?"

"Party's over, Jonathan," said Rick.

Jonathan blinked up at Rick with bleary eyes, his face splitting into a slow, lazy grin. "O'Connell, how smashing to see you! Have you met, er... well, I never caught her name, but..."

Beni rolled his eyes and took one of Jonathan's arms, while Rick grabbed the other. Despite his ability to keep up a steady stream of chatter, Jonathan was in no condition to walk by himself and leaned against Rick, muttering nonsense until his chatter turned into loud, drunken singing.

"Old King Cole was a merry old soul! And a merry old soul was he!" Jonathan warbled as Rick and Beni helped him out the door.

"Oh, God," Beni groaned.

"He called for his pipe, and he called for his bowl, and he called for his... for his fiddle. Fiddlers! Fiddlers three!"

"Good for Old King Cole," said Rick. His car was waiting outside and he put Jonathan in the backseat, then sat behind the wheel and motioned for Beni to take the passenger side. Beni scowled and grumbled to himself as he got in the car.

"I can't believe we have to take this idiot home," Beni complained.

"He obviously can't drive," said Rick. "Anyway, I owe it to his sister to get him home safe."

"Why the hell do you owe his sister anything?"

Rick shrugged and started the car. "We're friends."

"Oh, are you really?" said Beni, snickering.

"What about you and that Claudette broad? Sounds like you're pretty good friends with her."

"She is a pain in the ass."

"Then why're you screwing her?"

Beni shot a shifty look at Rick. "How do you know I am screwing her?"

"Word gets around."

"Well it is none of your business."

They fell silent as Rick drove away from the bar and when he listened hard, he could hear snoring from the backseat that told him Jonathan was asleep. He kept his eyes on the road, listening to Beni rummage around the car in search of cigarettes, and figured it really wasn't his business who Beni decided to sleep with, or why. It was nobody's business.

"The lights are on," Rick murmured as he pulled up in front of the Carnahan home. Either Evelyn had stayed up waiting for her brother, or she forgot to turn out the lights and was about to receive a rude awakening. "Don't touch anything," he added to Beni.

Beni gave him an injured look. "Why would I touch anything?"

"If I find out you swiped something, I'll cut one of your fingers off."

Rick got out of the car and walked up to the door, suddenly nervous. He had never called on Evelyn at such a late hour before; she might be in her nightgown, fast asleep in bed dreaming dreams of ancient Egypt, blissfully unaware that her favorite place in the city—the Museum of Antiquities—would be robbed in a week. When Izzy first approached Rick about the museum job, he thought it would be so easy to grab the Book of the Dead, hand it over to Meela, and collect his share of the money, but now... Now he felt like a dirty criminal, standing outside Evelyn's home in the middle of the night. He felt like a coward, daunted by a mere woman when he had faced down guns and cops, spent months in prisons across the globe, and got into more bar fights than he could count.

He couldn't ring that doorbell.

He trudged back to the car, where Jonathan continued to snore in the backseat and Beni puffed on a cigarette, blowing smoke into the dark, chilly night. "Help me get him out of here," he told Beni. "We're just gonna... leave him on the doorstep."

Beni smirked. "I thought you and his sister were friends."

"Just help me get Jonathan, all right?"

Five minutes later Rick was sitting behind the steering wheel, looking up towards the window where Evelyn's bedroom was located, and he forced himself to look away. Jonathan would wake up before long and let himself into the house, where he would collapse onto the nearest sofa and greet his sister with a wild, mostly fabricated story. Evelyn didn't need to know that Rick had driven to the house just after midnight, that he had stood on her front doorstep for an agonizing moment, unable to ring the doorbell.

She didn't need to know anything.


	4. September 1: The Jig's Up

PART FOUR  
"The Jig's Up"

_Willie's Liquor and Dry Goods  
**September 1, 1926**_

"All right, fellas. Which one of you bastards ratted us out?"

Daniels' blood should have been boiling, and he supposed it was simmering pretty good, but he was too tired to work up a proper rage. He was dog tired, plain and simple, and the last thing he wanted to do was stand around in a basement with a gun in his hand, threatening the very men who were supposed to be his partners. But that was exactly what Daniels was doing; not because he wanted to do it, but because he felt like he had to, for Henderson's sake and Jonathan's sake and hell, even his own sake, because there was nothing Daniels hated more than a rat.

Three pairs of eyes stared at him through the stuffy basement air. Daniels stared back, forcing himself to put on a brave face even though his arm—the one that took a bullet at the museum—hurt like a bitch and wouldn't stop bleeding through his makeshift bandage.

"Put the gun down," said Rick. He was pointing his own gun at Daniels, the self-righteous hypocrite, and showed no intention of lowering it.

Daniels stood firm with his weapon pointed between Rick's eyes, trying to muster up the energy to keep his arm steady, and hoped no one noticed that the look on his face was more of a grimace than a glower. God, his arm was killing him. "I ain't doing nothin' til I find out what the hell's goin' on. Where'd those cops come from?"

"I _said_ put the gun down," said Rick.

"Why don't we _all_ put our guns down?" Izzy suggested, an idiotic smile plastered desperately upon his face. "Look, look! I'm setting mine on the floor!"

Daniels looked at Beni, who stood at a distance from Rick and Izzy with his pistol clutched in his hand, watching the scene with wide, fearful eyes. Unlike Izzy, he didn't seem interested in surrendering his weapon and kept glancing frantically at the tables and chairs that littered the basement, no doubt scoping out the best hiding place. He could go ahead and hide for all Daniels cared. It would spare everyone the sight of his ugly little mug.

"Now I don't wanna have to hurt none of you," said Daniels, looking from Beni's frightened face to Rick's rigidly calm one. "Enough blood's been spilled today. But the jig's up, boys. One of you's gotta confess."

"What makes you so sure that one of us betrayed you?" said Beni, speaking at last. His voice was higher than usual, high and a little shaky. "What about your nice American friends?"

"You ask me that again and I _will_ shoot you right where you stand, you little rat-faced son of a bitch. Burns and Henderson are innocent."

"How do you know that?" asked Izzy.

" 'Cause I know 'em, that's how. Henderson got nabbed by the cops, for cryin' out loud."

"And Burns?" said Rick.

"Hell if I know what Burns is doin' right now," said Daniels. "But I do know he ain't a rat. And don't you get started on Jonathan, 'cause he ain't no rat either."

"But how do you know—" Izzy started to ask again, but Daniels silenced him with a gesture from his gun.

Rick never took his eyes off Daniels. "It could have been Meela," he said.

"Meela?" Daniels said with a snort. "Meela's got too much fuckin' class to pull a stunt like this. She'd do somethin' a helluva lot more sneaky than hit us with an ambush."

"What about Chamberlain?"

"Why the hell would the doc rat us out?"

"Maybe he changed his mind about forking over that fifteen grand."

"Oh, come on now, O'Connell!" Izzy exclaimed. "Old Chamberlain's got a stick up his ass the size of Africa. We both know it was _him_ who did it!" He pointed a finger at Beni, who looked like he was trying his best to fade into the background.

Beni gaped at Izzy with wide eyes. "I already told you it wasn't me!"

"Oh yes, and your word's as good as gold, ain't it? Just tell Daniels you did it so he can stop pointing that bloody gun at us!"

"If you want him to put the gun down so badly, then tell him _you_ did it," Beni retorted.

"That would be perfectly fine and dandy if I actually _did_ do it, but I didn't. So why don't you grow some fucking balls already and confess your sins for once in your life?"

Their bickering was starting to irritate Daniels even more than his wounded arm. He knew he shouldn't have agreed to work with a bohunk and a negro. Bad enough he took orders from a woman, and an Arab woman to boot, but the museum job was going to be the biggest score he'd had in years. He figured he could put up with Beni and Izzy for a little while, since he doubted he would ever see their sorry faces again, but now he wanted nothing more than to grab the two numbskulls and smash their heads together until they cracked.

If only his arm didn't hurt so badly.

"Would you two stop it already?" Rick demanded, glaring at Beni and Izzy. "I can't hear myself think."

Daniels scoffed at that. He didn't know Rick O'Connell _could_ think.

"O'Connell, open your eyes already!" said Izzy. He snatched his gun from off the floor and waved it in Beni's direction. "Beni here is the rat, and he ought to be put down like a rat."

"You wouldn't let anything happen to me, would you, O'Connell?" said Beni, looking pleadingly at Rick. "Think of poor Claudette, left to raise our baby all alone!"

"Claudette ain't got no baby," said Daniels.

"That's because it is not born yet," said Beni, turning his pathetic gaze on Daniels. His voice was a desperate whine, fear making his accent stronger than ever.

"Bullshit."

"She's having my baby," Beni insisted. "I just found out this morning."

"When the hell did you have time to find out a thing like that?" said Izzy.

"Before I got to the museum, obviously. So you see why I can't possibly be the rat. Why would I rat anyone out when I'm going to be a father?"

Daniels would have laughed right in Beni's face if he hadn't seen the weasel sneaking out of Claudette's apartment with his own eyes. Still, the thought of those two having a kid together was ridiculous. Not impossible, but ridiculous all the same, and it was awfully convenient that Beni just happened to find out he was going to be a father when danger loomed over his head.

"You don't believe this shit, do you, O'Connell?" said Daniels.

"Yeah," said Rick. He sounded dead serious. "I believe him."

"Well I don't give a fuck if _twenty_ women are having your baby," Izzy told Beni. "I still say you betrayed us, and I still say we ought to tear your black little heart out!"

"You would really let that poor little baby grow up without its father?" said Beni.

"I'd be doing the poor kid a favor."

"You would take me away from my own child, Izzy? My very first child?"

"The first one you know about, anyway," Rick muttered.

"Yes, Beni," said Izzy, his gun clutched stubbornly in one hand. "I bloody well would."

"So you will kill me," Beni continued in his pitiful whine. "And I will never know if the baby is a boy or a girl, or if it will look anything like me."

"You'd better hope it don't," said Daniels.

Beni ignored him. "You will let my fatherless little child be a bastard since I won't get the chance to marry its mother. How can you live with yourself, Izzy, knowing that Claudette's baby will have to suffer the shame of being a bastard? Nobody is nice to bastards."

"You wouldn't marry Claudette anyway," Izzy pointed out. "And I seriously doubt she would marry _you_."

"Izzy, please," Beni whined. "If it is a boy, I'll insist that Claudette name him after you. Claudette and I will get married and you can be uncle to little Izzy Gabor."

"Yes, that's awfully flattering, having my name attached to yours," said Izzy. "Makes me even more determined to kill your miserable ass."

Rick had been watching Izzy, studying him with a quiet suspicion that bordered on intensity. "Why do you keep trying to pin it on Beni?" he asked Izzy.

Daniels had to admit that the man had a point. "Yeah," he chimed in, aiming his gun at Izzy's head. "I ain't sayin' the weasel here is innocent, but you _do_ seem awful determined to make him into the bad guy. There somethin' you ain't tellin' us, Izzy ol' pal?"

Izzy responded by pointing his own gun at Daniels. "What are you saying, mate?"

"I'm sayin' that maybe _you're_ the one who's a rat. You think you're somethin' special, don'tcha, palling around with the white folks? Bet you thought it'd be a great idea to get a little glory from the cops. Sell us all out and make yourself out to be a great fuckin' citizen."

"Oh, _oh_, I see how it is," said Izzy. "Blame it on the man whose skin is the darkest! That's always the easiest solution, isn't it?"

"You people think you have it so very hard," said Beni, looking woefully at Izzy. "_My _people have been abused by the whole world for centuries and centuries."

"Since when are Hungarians abused by the world?" Rick asked skeptically.

"I'm not talking about the Hungarians. I'm talking about the Jews."

"The Jews?" Izzy echoed. "You're not Jewish!"

"I am too."

"You're not Jewish, Beni. You just tell everyone that so you can get Hanukkah presents!"

Beni reached inside his shirt and pulled out a six-pointed star that hung on a chain around his neck. "Then why do I wear this Star of David? It is a symbol of my unwavering faith."

Somehow Daniels had ended up standing much closer to Beni over the course of the conversation, and he could see a familiar shape resting against the exposed part of his chest. "Yeah?" said Daniels. "Then how come I see a cross danglin' behind that fancy star of yours?"

"Oh, he's got more than just a cross hiding under there," said Izzy. "Why don't you show him the whole lot, Beni? Show him what a good Jew you are."

"I _am_ Jewish," Beni retorted.

"Like hell you are," said Daniels.

"Look, this isn't about whether or not Beni's Jewish," said Rick, raising his voice. "I don't know about you guys, but I'm sick and tired of this basement. So let's stop trying to blame each other and get the hell out of here."

"Stop trying to blame each other, eh?" said Izzy. "You're the one who started pointing fingers at _me_ a few minutes ago!"

Daniels was starting to get a headache on top of the pain from his bullet wound. All he wanted to do was get a confession out of somebody, maybe shoot an arm or a leg to get his point across, and then find out what the hell Burns was doing. His intentions were a joke. He was stuck in a hot, stuffy basement with three idiots who wouldn't stop talking in circles, and he didn't even have the energy to feel pissed off over it. He didn't have the energy for anything anymore.

"Ya know, I don't even give a fuck who did it anymore," he said. "I'm fuckin' exhausted. My arm's got a bullet in it. But an innocent man was shot dead in that museum, and somebody's gotta pay."

"What do you mean, somebody was shot dead?" said Rick.

"Jonathan," Daniels said gruffly. "Took a bullet right in the chest."

"I already told you that," said Beni, sending a little glare in Rick's direction.

"You know he's dead for sure?" said Rick.

"As sure as I live and breathe," said Daniels. "He may have been a goddamn stupid Brit and a cheat at cards, but Jonny never hurt nobody and now his blood's on some bastard's filthy hands."

"Son of a bitch," said Rick.

He didn't look so sure of himself anymore, now that he knew Jonathan's fate, and he finally lowered his gun. He made Daniels sick, looking so sorry and upset when he never saw a single drop of blood spilled. Daniels had been there. He saw the red stain spreading across Jonathan's chest, soaking his clean white shirt with blood, and he heard Jonathan's final, desperate gasps for breath. The man had been trying to speak, urgently trying to force words out of his dying throat, but the effort was too much and he died right in front of Daniels, right before Henderson got nabbed and Daniels took a bullet in the arm.

Rick had no right to look sorry. He had no right to do or say anything when _he_ could have been the one who sold them out, and Daniels couldn't take it anymore. They were all standing there with their guns clutched in their hands, staring each other down in suspicion and fear, and Daniels _knew _somebody in that basement was responsible for Jonathan's death. He just wasn't sure which one. It didn't matter.

"Somebody's gotta pay," Daniels said again.

He felt a little stronger now, looking at those three treacherous faces in that awful, stuffy basement. He felt a little angrier, knowing that none of them had to watch Jonathan die, and he wanted them all to feel pain the way Jonathan felt it before he struggled for his last breath.

The gunshot shook the whole basement, a loud _crack!_ that rang in Daniels' ears for what felt like an eternity, and he thought it came from his own gun until the pain ripped through his insides, making him gasp. The gun dropped from his hand and clattered to the floor, but he didn't bother to pick it up and touched his chest, hoping to feel smooth, dry fabric held together by those little brass buttons that he always buttoned up the wrong way when he was hungover in the morning.

His fingers were covered in blood.

He looked down at his chest, saw the red stain that looked just like Jonathan's, and suddenly found it hard to stand up straight. He should have remembered to fill up his flask with bourbon before he left his apartment that morning, should have said _hell no_ when Henderson asked him if he could work with the likes of Beni and Izzy, should have gotten that blonde waitress' address when he had the chance.

He couldn't feel the pain in his arm anymore. Couldn't even remember what had happened to it in the first place. God, he couldn't stand up anymore.

"Somebody's... gotta pay..." Daniels murmured, blinking through the clouds that had settled over his eyes. He was going to kill the rat bastard who did this. He would fucking kill him.

He was going—


	5. August 28: You Gotta Play Dirty

**Author's Note:** Couple of things I want to comment on here. First I want to address the dialogue in this chapter, since the language gets rather offensive at times. The views expressed in this story belong solely to the characters. Second, the thing with Beni and Claudette looks like a continuity error when compared to the previous chapter, but it's not. The discrepancy in the timeline is intentional. ;)

* * *

PART FIVE  
"You Gotta Play Dirty"

_A restaurant in Cairo  
**August 28, 1926**_

"His name's Chamberlain," Henderson said, pouring a shot of bourbon into his coffee. "Dr. Chamberlain. Says he'll give us fifteen grand for that Book of the Dead and the key that goes with it."

Burns let out a whistle. "Fifteen grand for a fucking book. Must be nice, having that kind of money to throw away."

"Must be nice?" Izzy echoed. "For Dr. What's-His-Name, perhaps, but what about us? What the bloody hell is Meela gonna say when we tell her we've found another buyer?"

Henderson smirked around his wad of tobacco. "She ain't gonna say nothin', 'cause we ain't gonna say a word to her."

"What do you mean? We're just gonna take this doctor fellow's money behind Meela's back and pretend nothing's changed?"

"That's exactly what I mean."

"Why don't we just back out of the deal with Meela?" asked Rick, frowning at the steam that rose from his coffee. "Why lie to her and sneak around like that?"

"We back out of the deal, and Meela will just find somebody else to do the job for her," said Henderson. "And then we don't get shit. You wanna get the most outta this job, you gotta play dirty."

Rick was still frowning. "What's wrong with taking Meela's ten grand?"

"Why settle for ten grand when we can have fifteen instead?" Beni spoke up. "I would much rather work for this doctor. He sounds like a real sucker if he is willing to pay that much for a book."

"You only say that 'cause you can't read," Izzy pointed out.

Beni promptly kicked him under the table. He had been uncomfortable ever since he sat down to have breakfast with the six men he would be working with in just four days. There they all sat around the biggest table the restaurant had to offer, drinking an assortment of coffee, tea, and the contents of three different flasks. There they all sat, tolerating each other while they waited for their food. Rick. Izzy. Jonathan. Daniels. Burns. Henderson. And Beni, who longed to be alone in his apartment with the covers pulled over his head, dead to the world for another hour. Even the mice that scampered under his bed were better than the six buffoons he shared a table with.

Beni wasn't used to eating breakfast with so many people. He wasn't used to sitting with so many people in the first place. He had the misfortune of sitting next to Izzy, who insisted on talking right in his ear, and he was directly across from Daniels, who kept glowering at him for no reason at all.

"Anyway, I've had it with Meela," Henderson added. "It's hell workin' for a woman."

"Amen to that," said Daniels.

"Far as I'm concerned, Meela's gettin' too big for her britches."

"Stockings," said Burns.

Henderson poured another shot of bourbon into his coffee, nearly missing the cup as he looked at Burns. "What?"

"She'd be too big for her stockings," Burns explained. "Women don't wear britches."

Henderson snorted. "That's another reason women shouldn't be in this business. You gotta change your expressions on account of them."

Beni sighed with relief when the food finally arrived. An overweight, red-faced Englishwoman in a wide apron came bustling to the table, bringing seven steaming plates one at a time until everyone was served. It was all English food, of course, since Jonathan insisted they eat at an English restaurant, but Beni was too hungry to care. He scooped up a forkful of baked beans and shoved it into his mouth.

"The hell's this?" asked Henderson. He took his fork and poked at a couple of dark shapes that sat on his plate.

"Black pudding, my good son," Jonathan replied.

"Don't look like no pudding I ever seen," said Daniels.

"Made from pork's blood, you know," Jonathan added, cutting up his own black pudding with perfect nonchalance.

Daniels looked at his plate in horror. "Get the fuck outta here."

"Quite delicious, really," said Jonathan.

"Well I ain't eatin' no blood," Henderson declared. He poked hesitantly at the sausage sitting on a scoop of mashed potatoes. "What about this stuff? There any surprises in this?"

"Looks like ordinary bangers and mash to me, mate," Izzy piped up.

"Bangers and mash," Daniels echoed. "You people have got the funniest names for shit."

Beni didn't care what the food was called. He was starving and there was a good chance he wouldn't have to pay for his breakfast, if he pretended he had to take a piss and simply never came back. It worked on Rick once before and he was sure he could pull it off again. He grabbed the paprika from the center of the table and sprinkled it on his breakfast, coating every bland English inch, and hastily popped a couple of fried mushrooms in his mouth.

"You know where you can find some strange fuckin' food?" Henderson asked, pushing his black pudding to the edge of his plate.

Rick didn't seem bothered by the breakfast and took a hearty bite of everything. "Where?"

"San Fran-cis-co." Henderson treated each syllable like it was a separate word.

Izzy frowned as he stirred more sugar into his tea. "That near Hollywood?"

"No," Henderson said impatiently. "It ain't near Hollywood."

"Well they're in the same general area, aren't they?"

"It ain't_ nowhere _near Hollywood," said Henderson. "California's a big fuckin' state, you dumbass. Up north there ain't nothin' but cows and shit. Down south you got Hollywood and a bunch of spics. Somewhere 'round the middle you got San Fran-cis-co, where you got a fuckin' lot of chinks. You'd think you was in Shanghai or somethin'."

"What is so strange about the food in San Francisco?" Beni asked. He didn't know where San Francisco was, or where Hollywood was for that matter, and Shanghai was nothing more than a name that sparked a vague sort of interest every now and then, whenever he thought about where he would go if he ever left Egypt.

"Chinatown," Henderson replied. "They eat fuckin' dogs and cats in Chinatown. Seen it with my own eyes."

Jonathan winced. "Surely they don't eat their own pets."

"People will eat anything when they are starving," Beni informed him gravely.

Jonathan's eyes widened in shock. "Don't tell me _you've _eaten a dog or a cat."

Henderson cleared his throat loudly. "Hate to interrupt you gentlemen, but I was tellin' a story here."

"Then tell your damn story already," said Daniels.

"Shut your trap and I will, Daniels. Now I was in San Fran-cis-co last summer—"

"I've heard that story already," Daniels cut in.

"Well the other fellas haven't," said Henderson. "So I'm gonna tell it. Now anyway, I'm in San Fran-cis-co last summer. People think California's all sunshine and shit, but it ain't. It was the middle of fuckin' August and it was windy as hell. Cold, too. It gets cold there on the waterfront, even in the summer. I head into Chinatown—where I swear to God they eat dogs and cats and octopus, and other shit—and this chink woman comes outta nowhere and throws herself at me. She looks like that Chinese broad in that one movie. What was that picture show with all the Ay-rabs in it?"

"_The Sheik?_" said Rick.

"No, there weren't no Chinese broads in _The Sheik_. It was another movie."

"You're thinking of Anna May Wong," Burns spoke up. "In _The Thief of Bagdad_."

"Yeah, that's it," said Henderson. "This broad looks like Anna May Wong. 'Course, they all look kind of alike, except this one's a looker. She throws herself at my feet and looks up at me all pale and shaky, and says I can do whatever I like to her if I get her some opium."

Beni smirked. "I like the sound of this Chinatown."

"So what'd you do?" asked Izzy.

"What do you think I do?" said Henderson. "I turn around so I can try and get the fuck outta there."

"What do you mean, you tried to get out of there?" said Beni. "This woman is offering to spread her legs for you and you walk away?"

"Unlike you, I get to be choosy with my women," Henderson said smugly.

Beni didn't take offense. Henderson and his friends thought they were so funny whenever they commented on his looks, but they weren't the ones who had Claudette Devereux's expensive French perfume clinging to their shirts. Of course, they also weren't the ones who had to fetch her a glass of water after she got sick. For the twentieth time.

Beni took a sulky sip of his coffee and tried to keep from frowning. She was probably sick from eating bad food from the markets.

"So what exactly _did_ you do when you refused the poor girl?" asked Jonathan, steering the conversation back on track.

"Like I said, I turn away from the broad," said Henderson. "I ain't messin' with no opium."

"Could have gone to the pharmacy and tossed the poor thing a bottle of morphine," said Jonathan. "That would do the trick, wouldn't it?"

"Maybe she _prefers_ opium, mate," said Izzy. "There's nothing to it when you take morphine. Opium, on the other hand... opium's all about atmosphere."

Rick raised an eyebrow. "Atmosphere, huh?"

"Yes, O'Connell. _Atmosphere_. Dosing yourself with drugs from the pharmacy ain't the same as lying on a couch with a pipe in your hand, losing yourself in the smoke. Like being in a dream. It ain't the same at all."

"You seem to be an expert, don'tcha?" Daniels grunted.

Izzy grinned sheepishly. "I spent a few wild years in Morocco."

Burns was frowning as he cut up the last of his sausage. "Weren't we talking about San Francisco? And that Chinese broad?"

"It is obviously not a good story if Henderson didn't want to fuck her," said Beni.

"I never said I didn't want to fuck her," said Henderson. "I just don't like gettin' mixed up in opium, 'specially in Chinatown. There's some scary shit in Chinatown."

"So how'd the story end?" asked Burns.

"Hell, you all ruined the story. All that chatterin' and what-have-you. Lost my train of thought."

"I'm ready to get out of here, anyway," said Rick. He had eaten every bite on his plate, black pudding and all. "You sure you want to make that other deal? With that doctor guy?"

"So we can earn some extra dough and give Meela a swift kick in the balls while we're at it?" said Daniels. "Hell yeah."

"Women ain't got balls, mate," said Izzy.

"What am I supposed to say, then? Give her a swift kick in the tits? Waste of a good pair of tits, if you ask me."

"So we're gonna do it?" Rick asked, grim-faced and serious as he leaned back in his seat, fumbling in his pockets for his wallet.

"Yeah," said Henderson. "We're gonna sell to Chamberlain. You got a problem with that?"

"No," said Rick. "I don't have a problem."

"That settles it, then."

The meeting at the breakfast table was apparently over. Beni was pretty sure he had the money to pay for his meal, but he didn't like parting with it when he still had four days until the museum robbery. He scooted his chair away from the table, giving what he hoped was an innocent smile. "Pardon me, my friends. I will be taking a piss if anyone needs me." He started to stand up, but Rick grabbed him and shoved him back into his seat.

"Not so fast," said Rick. "You can piss all you want after you pay."

"What are you implying, O'Connell?" said Beni, looking at him with big eyes. "Surely you don't expect me to deceive you when there are six of you and only one of me. I _really_ need to relieve myself."

Rick was still gripping Beni by the scruff of his neck and used his free hand to snatch Beni's wallet out of his pocket.

"Hey!" cried Beni.

Rick pulled out the appropriate amount of pounds and tossed the wallet into Beni's lap. "There. Go relieve yourself."

"Good show, O'Connell," Jonathan said admiringly.

Beni grumbled to himself as he got up from the table, muttering a few choice words in Hungarian about Rick and his mother and what farm animal she probably slept with. What did they need his money for, anyway? They were all getting a big payoff in four days. Wishing he had refilled his flask at the restaurant when he had the chance, Beni slunk outside and caught a cab to Claudette's apartment where he could hopefully forget about the crowd of fools he had agreed to work with. Maybe Claudette wasn't sick anymore. Maybe it was nothing and they could continue as they always had, spending their days and nights using each other because Beni liked French women and Claudette had a weakness for bad men.

He needed her again, even though he left her bed earlier that morning, right before he arrived at the restaurant. It was the only way he could cope with the idea of eating breakfast with six idiots, four of whom were American, and now it was the only way he could recover from the breakfast itself. He got out of the cab and hurried past the market stalls clustered near Claudette's building, then turned down the side street where her apartment stood and crept up the stairs until he reached her door.

She had better be home. She had better not have the flu, or else Beni would never forgive her if she gave it to him. He felt uneasy all of a sudden, standing in front of her door with unpleasant possibilities running through his head, but at last he gave the door a rapid knock.

The door swung open and Claudette appeared, wearing a scandalously short, lacy dress with too many flounces and a thousand gold beads sewn onto the front of it. Her peroxide curls contrasted with the dark pink rouge she had painted on her cheeks.

"_You_," said Claudette, glaring at the sight of Beni. She pulled off one of her high-heeled shoes and hurled it at him, catching him right in the chest.

Beni doubled over in pain. "What the hell, Claudette?"

She quickly threw her other shoe at him. "I should have never let you into my home," she declared. "_Never_."

They spoke to each other in French, though Beni struggled to maintain his grasp on the language when his body stung from the impact of her heels. "You're hurting me," he whined, just in case she failed to notice his anguish.

"You deserve to be hurt, you bastard."

"I don't understand. What have I done wrong?"

Claudette grabbed her shoes and let Beni into the apartment, her thin, artificial eyebrows still drawn in a frown. She slammed the door shut with a bang.

"I just came back from the doctor," she said.

Beni rubbed at the spot where her shoe struck him on the chest, wincing at the pain. "_I'm_ the one who needs a doctor," he grumbled.

"I'm _pregnant_, Beni," said Claudette. "With _your_ miserable baby."

Beni stared at her, his pain suddenly forgotten. "That's impossible."

"How is it impossible? We've been sleeping together for weeks and weeks!"

"It can't be mine."

"Who else's could it be?" Claudette demanded.

"I don't know," said Beni, looking at her desperately. "Surely there is somebody else out there who has screwed you."

"Fuck you, Beni."

He couldn't help but smirk. "You have already done that plenty of times."

"Yes, and look where it's got me!" Claudette sank down onto a garish magenta chair, a couple of tears rolling down her cheeks. "I don't know what to do, Beni. Besides running a knife through your horrible little heart, of course."

"I don't know why you're blaming me," said Beni. "It is the baby's fault."

"It's _your_ fault the baby exists."

"Well what do you want me to do? Put a ring on your finger and tell you how much I will _love_ and _adore_ you forever and ever and ever?"

"What's the use?" Claudette said with a sigh. "There's a price on my head in Paris and I know the Cairo police would love to get their hands on me. I will be dragged off to prison sooner or later, and then the hangman will come for me." She sat up straighter in her chair, a sudden light in her eyes. "But surely no one can harm me if I'm having a baby."

"What are you saying?" said Beni, watching her warily.

"There's something rather... _innocent_ about a woman who's having a baby. Nobody wants to arrest a poor mother whose only crime is caring for her child."

"So now you want the baby," Beni said in disbelief.

"Maybe I do..." Claudette said slowly. "Rich people pay a lot of money to adopt babies, don't they?"

"Rich people will waste money on anything."

"Then perhaps your miserable baby isn't so bad."

"Claudette, you can't be serious," Beni whined. "All that trouble to have my poor little baby, and then you will give it away?"

"Don't pretend you want me to have it, Beni. I saw your face when you heard the news."

"_Of course_ I want you to have it. I have always wanted nothing more than to be a father."

"You hate children," Claudette pointed out.

"So do you."

Claudette let out a little gasp. "I do not!"

"Well you only want to sell the baby because it's mine. If it was someone else's baby you would keep it."

"If it was someone else's baby I would be guaranteed a fortune for it. I'll be lucky if I can get any money at all for _your_ pathetic child."

Beni was getting tired of the whole discussion. He didn't particularly want to be a father, and Claudette had no interest in being a mother, and the whole thing was getting ridiculous. He supposed it didn't matter if Claudette had the baby or not. He was getting quite a bit of money soon, once he got his share from that doctor Henderson found, and then he could leave Cairo and take passage to Shanghai or Paris or anywhere. He didn't have to stick around when Claudette didn't want him to be her child's father. No woman wanted that.

He fumbled around for a cigarette, then realized he left them all at home and swore under his breath. He wasn't in the mood for screwing Claudette anymore. He wasn't in the mood for anything.

"I'll see you tomorrow," he said, with a sulky look at Claudette.

She pulled her dark red lips into a pout. "What do you mean, see me tomorrow? Are you leaving already?"

"You obviously do not want me here. You threw things at me."

"I lost my temper."

"And you will lose it again. I know when I am not wanted."

"But you _will_ come see me tomorrow, won't you?" said Claudette. She no longer sounded like a woman who planned to sell her baby to the highest bidder. She sounded a little more desperate, as if the reality of her situation had finally sunk in, but she wouldn't get any pity from Beni. She didn't deserve his pity.

"Maybe," said Beni, and that was all he would say to her.

He didn't want to be a father. He didn't want to know what a child of his would look like, or what it would think of him when it was old enough to look at him in contempt. He didn't want the responsibility that came with a whining, helpless creature that did nothing but eat and sleep and cry all the time.

He didn't want anything to do with the child, but Claudette's decision to sell the baby annoyed him. It was his, even if he didn't want it, and she had no right to sell something that was his. She had no right to get rich just because Beni was unlucky enough to knock her up.

Maybe he would see her tomorrow, but maybe he wouldn't. He didn't owe Claudette anything.

Beni left the apartment and slammed the door behind him.


End file.
